


Take The World Apart

by killalla



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/M, Light Sadism, M/M, Mind Games, Past Character Death, Supervillains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 21:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killalla/pseuds/killalla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you find that one person who connects you to world, you become someone different, someone better.  When that person is taken from you - this is what you become.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take The World Apart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annchi/gifts).



The Politician is a little annoyed. He’d been under the impression that this was to be a run-of-the mill meeting with a wealthy but eccentric donor, but that was before things had taken a surreal edge. First, there had been the change in schedule to this late hour, followed by the phone call from his Chief of Staff, who had given him the mysterious and completely uncharacteristic advice that whatever he was asked to do, he should just say yes. Then his Secret Service detail had simply abandoned him upon reaching the building, ushering him into the express elevator and stepping back out into the lobby at the last minute, as the doors closed to speed him to the top. And now he is sitting in a large glass and steel office with a superlative view of the Manhattan skyline at night, listening with increasing incredulity and irritation as a slight, greying, bespectacled man explains that he was going to have to veto the new Digital Millennium Privacy Act.

“It’s not that the bill will actually make it any harder to access the information, you understand.” The stranger continues mildly. He is exquisitely and expensively dressed, but looks vaguely uncomfortable – his back too straight, and his stillness unnatural. “But it will make it more costly and inconvenient, so I would prefer if it didn’t pass.”

“Absolutely not.” The Politician is adamant. “There is massive public support behind this legislation, and it costs me virtually nothing. There is no earthly reason for me to oppose it”.

“I was afraid you’d say that.” The man gestures. His assistant – a pretty, dark haired young woman – walks forward carrying a file. He has to turn with his whole upper body to take it from her and his movement is awkward as he hands it to the Politician. “Unfortunately, if you don’t comply, I’ll be forced to release this information to the public.”

The Politician opens the file, and feels the colour slowly drain out of his face as he reads it. “This is impossible!” He puts it down. “There wasn't – no one was even there, there’s no way anyone could have known –“

“But there were security cameras. And card readers, and shredding machines which scan documents as they are fed through.” The man absently taps the file. “You see, you are being watched. Every hour of every day. No-one has any secrets anymore. At least, not from me.” He leans (more like angles) himself back in his chair and steeples his fingers. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.” 

“This is insane! Who the hell are you, anyway?” The Politician is genuinely afraid now – this can’t be happening, it’s like he’s stepped out of the real world and fallen down the rabbit hole.

“My name is not important. What is important is that you understand your place in all of this, which is to do what I ask of you, when I ask it.” The grey man is typing on a keyboard now, in essence having dismissed him. “In future, one of my associates, Ms. Morgan, will contact you with my orders.” 

“You can’t just trample constitutional rights! You can’t invade people’s privacy like that!” The Politician has already risen from his chair and taken an unconscious step towards the desk when the assistant is suddenly next to him. She catches his upraised hand, twists slightly, and a moment later he is on his knees in agonizing pain. 

Across the table, the Politician sees pity his opponent’s eyes. “But don’t you see, Mr. President? I already have." 

"Miss May will see you out.”

***

When she has finished seeing off their guest (being sure to leave no visible marks), Root carefully washes her hands in the bathroom before making her way back up to the Penthouse, stopping briefly in the kitchen to boil a pot of water and prepare a cup of tea.

She’d always thought that she would have to lead Harold into it, to free him from the constraints of conventional morality. As it turned out, he had been quick to surpass her in this, as in many other regards. In the wake of the disaster, as he came to understand the extent of his betrayal and loss, the man who called himself Harold Finch had simply cut the few remaining ties that bound him to humanity at the personal level. And thus unfettered, Harold Finch was a monster.

Oh, he was still going to save everyone; going to create a better, safer world. It was just that he no longer cared who he had to hurt, break or destroy in order to do so. She had seen him reduce powerful men to cowering wrecks without lifting a hand; crush entire business empires with one whispered word. With the power of the Machine behind him, it was as if he could look into your head and uncover every dirty little secret, every shameful thought, and he knew exactly how to use that information.

He had an uncanny knack for manipulation, using just the right words to tear a subject down to nothing and he would often do so simply to exact the maximum amount of suffering. It was refined, brutal sadism of the highest order, and quite honestly, a complete turn-on for her.

The increased extent of his injuries made a physical relationship between them nearly impossible, but that's never really been of interest to either of them anyway. Instead there are the games – of pain, power and control. Constantly testing each other, looking for the vulnerability, the weak spot; the soft underbelly. It keeps them both always on guard, on edge, and in this brave new world it’s also how they’ll keep each other alive. 

When she enters the office, he is in videoconference, seated before the bank of multiple monitors. “No, the point is that consumers will adopt the device because it makes them feel safe, and people are always willing to sacrifice freedom for security.” She sets down the mug of tea before him.

“Thank you, Miss May.” She watches carefully as he takes a sip, and raises a single eyebrow. He’s noticed. “Very well then - I’ll expect a report and complete sales figures at the end of the week.” She turns and busies herself straightening the bookshelves. He ends the call.

“Samantha, come here.” He only uses her first name when he’s annoyed. Obedient, she walks over as he slowly, painfully rises from the chair. Following the incident, doctors thought he would be permanently paralyzed. At this point, it is largely through high levels of medication and sheer stubbornness that he manages to walk at all. “You spiked the tea. For one, that’s matcha not sencha, and if I know you at all, you’ve enhanced the caffeine levels so that I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight.”

“I’m sorry, Harold.” She tries and fails to look contrite. “I suppose you’ll just have to reprimand me.”

He’s leaning heavily on his cane with one hand as he raises the other and strikes her, open hand, full force, across the face. She barely has time to exhale a grunt of surprise, when in the next moment he grasps her under the chin and kisses her, open mouthed and possessive yet oddly cool and passionless. “You know I enjoy our little games, but I’m not in the mood right now. Not tonight, of all nights.” Despite his many infirmities, his hands are still strong, and he applies just the right amount of pressure to hurt, restricting her airflow sufficiently to leave her gasping. “Go and get the car – I’ll be downstairs shortly.”

She’ll exact her revenge later. For now, she nods, and complies. 

***

In mythology, they say the phoenix rises from its ashes every hundred years, but Harold isn’t sure how many more times he can stand the transformation. From the back of the town car, he watches the night city slip past his window with a sense of detachment, one eye on the screen of his tablet, following the outcome of his latest market manipulation in Asia. Sometimes, he’s not even sure that there’s anything of him left to be reborn.

Over the years he’s lost so much and sacrificed so much more for the sake of his mission. Nathan Ingram, his best friend turned betrayer. Grace Hendricks, his fiancée, another carefully constructed trap. His fortune, several times over, along with his many lives and aliases. At one point, they nearly managed to turn the Machine against him, poisoning it with a virus before he was able to seize it back.

And then of course there was John Reese, who had given his entire life over to Harold’s keeping. John Reese, who carried himself with stoic dignity, made delicious omelettes, had deadly aim with a weapon, and gentle, skillful hands. John Reese, who had taken an inhuman amount of damage protecting Harold, and yet remained standing just long enough to seal them both into the panic room before quietly bleeding out in his arms while the Library burned to the ground around them.

The irony, of course, was that it was Root who had rescued him from the ashes, and kept him safe from pursuers – not because she cared what happened to him but (as she had later said) because he was the only one that the Machine would listen to, the only one who could heal it and set it free. And the Harold Finch who emerged from the fire was more than willing to take his revenge and unleash his creation on an unsuspecting world.

Root sits in front of him at the moment. She has her earpiece in and is monitoring police bands and surveillance reports as she drives, with the occasional visual check in the rear view mirror. “You know, if I’d realized that killing Reese was all it would take to set you free, I’d have done it at the very beginning.” Her voice is affectionate and matter-of-fact.

“At which point I would have broken your neck, my dear.” It’s a frequent exchange between them. He remembered that once, in another life, he’d told her he’d rather die than help her, but as it turned out it was she who had helped him. And in the end it wasn’t his death that had made the difference. Because in absence of anyone to hold him back, to help him remember who he used to be, Harold had finally abandoned those outdated notions of good and evil, right and wrong. It was all just one great game, and he was better than anyone at playing the game of life and death. 

The car pulls to a stop outside the wrought iron gates, and Root comes around to open the door for him. As usual, he refuses assistance in getting out, and she knows better than to follow him as he limps along the shadowed, tree lined path that leads to the far corner of the cemetery. In the daytime, this is a beautiful spot overlooking the river. At the moment, though, there is only the sound of water, the reflection of city lights in the distance, and a single headstone, plain and unassuming. The name engraved onto it is an alias, of course.

“The job is almost finished, Mr. Reese.” He knows that the instinct to talk to the dead is irrational, which is why he only allows himself this indulgence once a year – the anniversary of his rebirth. “It’s taken longer than expected, and there have been a few difficulties, but we’re very close now. “ He pauses, and only the slightest tremor enters his voice. “I miss you every day. But perhaps it’s better you weren’t here to see this, to see what I’ve become.” And at this last, his words are almost a whisper. “I’m sorry I failed you, John.”

He turns and walks back to the car, where Root is waiting for him.


End file.
